Today I was not looking forward to braving the downtown traffic in that craziest of all places to drive, Boston, Massachusetts (we were going to Quincy in south Boston). In addition, I figured that finding a place to park for our "3-parking-places" rig would be like finding an unused ticket for the Super Bowl lying around in plain sight. I just didn't expect it to happen.
This being a weekday, the rush-hour traffic we encountered driving south from Salem fully lived up to our expectations. Later, when we had exited the freeway and plunged onto city streets in Quincy, we almost immediately encountered road construction, which kept us company all the way to our destination, the President John Adams Visitor and Tour Center.
But then something magical happened. As we rolled past the Center's adjacent parking garage where normal people were invited to leave their vehicles, we turned west onto a tiny lane filled with parked cars. Soon we saw a large parking lot that warned anyone against actually parking there. Finally, we entered an extra-wide, S-curved residential lane that seemed to be just right for parking something that took up three spaces. We looked at the posted parking signs, and they promised that you could hang around for a full THREE hours before the guy in the police department golf cart would be around to give you a ticket. Wow! We looked at each other in disbelief. Could this be real?
Well, just to test fate, we made a U-turn opposite a "T" intersection and parked in front of a large Victorian house with an older gentleman sitting on the front porch. I looked over to see if he intended to jump up and charge down the front walk to holler at us, but he didn't seem to be showing any interest in us at all. Okay, so far so good. Just to be sure that the rig didn't extend too far into the street, and cause a passing motorist difficulties, I edged over a bit onto the parking strip with the inboard tires. I looked again at the man, but he still continued to ignore us. I turned off the key and announced that we had arrived at the perfect spot. Time to walk the three blocks to the Visitor Center.
We're always glad when we can get in our 10,000 steps for the day, so parking a few blocks away never bothers us at all. Plus, I knew when we got back to our parking location, we would find it a dandy place to sit and have lunch. The street was only lightly traveled, as far as we'd seen, so traffic noise would be minimum.
Our walk turned out to be a piece of cake, and within a few minutes we had reached our destination Unfortunately, we had only just missed the tour departure to the various Adams family residences that lay nearby. Well, that left us plenty of time to watch the half-hour movie and prowl the gift shop for irresistible bargains. Then, almost before we knew it, we'd been called to load the trolley and off we went. This time it was the trolley driver who had to fight the construction-zone problems.
By the end of our tour we had visited all three of John and Abigail Adams family houses, from their very first crude 4-room house (two up, two down) with the low ceilings and sagging doors, to their post Presidential, multi-room mansion. We found each house just totally fascinating, though once again we were forbidden to take any interior photos.
The following material is from the John Adams Historical Society: "John Adams birthplace home is located in the Adams National Historical Park on Franklin Street. It was built in 1681 and purchased by Deacon John Adams, John Adams’ father, in 1720. Standing in its original location, the house is a saltbox American colonial style home (photo left) and was originally surrounded by six acres of land. In this house was where the second president was born on October 30, 1735 and where he and his family lived until he married Abigail Smith."
"In 1744 Deacon Adams purchased a second saltbox style house (photo below) located 75 feet away with a large amount of land. His two properties, including the houses, would amount to 188 acres. During the summer Deacon Adams worked as a farmer in his land with the help of his sons and in the winter as a shoemaker. Both houses were small and humble, but kept in tidy condition. Furniture was scarce and plain.
"In 1788, as John and Abigail Adams became more affluent, they moved to a larger house known as "Peacefield." Built in 1731 by Leonard Vassall, it originally had seven rooms, as well as rooms for servants. Furniture was more elaborate and in display are objects collected from his trips in Europe as a diplomat."
"Peacefield was John Adam’s home during his presidency, and where he lived during retirement. He purchased it "sight unseen" while he was serving as ambassador to England. He and Abigail and the children lived at Peacefield both before and after his Presidency. In fact, the house would be the residence of the Adams family for four generations from 1788 to 1927. President John Adams, President John Quincy Adams, Minister to Great Britain Charles Francis Adams, and historians Henry and Brooks Adams called Peacefield home."
"Next to the Old House is the Stone Library. John Quincy requested in his will that his books and papers be placed in a separated fire proof building which was built in 1870."
It was the library that left me completely mesmerized. It contains around 12,000 volumes, most put together by John Adams' son, John Quincy Adams. J. Q. Adams was a voracious reader, and not just of books in English. J. Q. could speak TWELVE languages fluently by the time he became our sixth President. But it was John Adams' grandson, Charles Francis Adams who built the lovely stone library on the Peacefield property to ensure the longevity of his father's and grandfather's book collections (photo below right).
After our two-hour tour of the Adams houses, we picked up our gift-shop purchases and dashed for the rig. Even though we were not going to miss our three-hour deadline by much, we WERE going to miss it. But when we had reached our little home on wheels we found no parking ticket, nor any sign anyone was upset with its sitting there most of the morning. We proceeded to have our lunch, drink our coffee, and watch the world go by well into the afternoon.
Of course we couldn't sit there relaxing forever. Our goal for the afternoon was to drive twenty-five miles to the south and try to locate the house where Concetta was born in the tiny town of Milford, Massachusetts. Hoping that the GPS would try and keep us out of the construction zones in central Quincy, we set out about 2:00 p.m., muddled through the construction zones anyway, and were then soon gliding south on Interstate 95. Before long we had changed over to Interstate 495, then a couple of city streets in Milford, before the GPS announced, with plenty of authority in her voice, "turn right and arrive at #66 Fruit Street."
This we did, and proceeded to enter that part of Fruit Street that started with house number 40 and declined to house number 12 or so. The GPS had "done" us again.
At this point, not sure whether the street had recently been renumbered, or if the GPS was just having more fun with us, we parked and started walking in the direction that number 66 should be located. Along the way we encountered various neighbors, all of whom we asked about the changed number idea, and all of whom responded that they didn't think so.
After walking several minutes, we came upon an Italian gentleman working in his front yard who, for some reason, immediately jumped into a discussion of economics after we'd asked him about the house number mystery. "What do you do when you're retired and have a mortgage to pay and the government takes all your money?" he wanted to know.
I responded that you should try and pay off your mortgage BEFORE you retire, but that answer didn't seem to be what he wanted to hear.
"What do you think about reverse mortgage?" he asked
We shook our heads "Wouldn't recommend it," we said in unison.
"Well, I live here alone," he continued, inferring, I suppose, that he had no one to whom he wished to leave his estate.
"Well," I told him. "If you decide to do it, be sure you get some sound financial advice first."
"Listen," he said, when you find your house down the street there, come back and talk some more with me, will ya? We'll have a soda."
We told him we'd try, but it was getting very late in the day and we still had to find Concetta's house and then find our camp. We promised to see him later, and I feel bad that we didn't knock on his door on our way back, but we just had to keep moving.
The next person we encountered was the lady delivering mail on Fruit Street. She told us that, yes indeed, there was a number 66 on Fruit Street. We just needed to walk a few more houses to the north.
Turned out the mail delivery lady was smarter than our GPS. Her directions pointed us right to the house. As we walked up, Concetta affirmed that it sure looked like the house in which she was born, though her recollections go back seven decades and had been formed before her 4th birthday.
Back in the mid 1940s when Concetta lived on Fruit Street, her grandmother also lived on that street. So off we went to find that house as well. Soon we arrived at what just had to be the house, and we got a few more photos. Then it was the long walk back to the rig, followed by a mad dash north on Interstate 495 to find our camp in Littleton.
We finally found the "Minute Man" RV camp just after 5:00 p.m., and the owner personally took us to our spot. Then we launched into a flurry of activity with me setting up the rig, and Concetta getting started on some laundry and then preparing for dinner. Now, night has fallen outside and we're just enjoying the peaceful night air and all seems right with the world. Tomorrow our game plan is to do a "park and ride" from a nearby subway station where they have provided spaces for RVs and long-term parking. Then we hope to catch the "Green Line" into Boston to absorb as much of the 18th century as we can.
So, until we meet again, we wish you Happy Travels!
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